


The Chair

by mathildia



Series: Domestic Hydra Husbands and Steve [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood, Consensual Kink, Cutting, HYDRA Husbands, Homophobic Language, Homophobic Slurs, Humilation, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochism, Mildly Dubious Consent, OH STEVE, Polyamory, Rape Fantasy, Sadism, Sadomasochism, Verbal Abuse, Watersports, dominance hierachy, face fucking, honestly for fuck's sake, pain slut steve rogers, sandpaper, steve rogers super masochist, switch brock rumlow, the serum amplifies everything, this is so terrible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:18:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4463447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mathildia/pseuds/mathildia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The chair. Quite an innocuous looking chair in many ways. An upright dining chair from a yard sale. It has a single eyelet fixed to the top edge of the back. Right in the middle. Nothing really. Hardly a torture device to a man like Brock Rumlow, who has seen real torture, who has tortured, who has been trained to withstand torture in simulations so pin-sharp he still has nightmares. Still, sometimes Brock saw that chair in the corner of the lounge with a potted plant on it and his mouth dried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Steve Rogers: Super Masochist or The Serum Amplifies Everything

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Стул](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13586901) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



Jack is in his favourite armchair. It’s thick, rich brown leather. On one of the wide arms sits a cut glass ashtray and the smoke put there is trailing a frond of blue up into the air. Under the ashtray there’s a rip in the leather, that’s patched with a newer piece that doesn’t quite match. That had been Brock. It was an accident. He hadn’t noticed. Some bit of metal on his harness had caught somehow, and twisted leaving a sharp, jutting piece. He hadn’t noticed because he’d been bent over the arm of that chair, ass up, face buried in the cushion, attention on nothing but Jack’s dick. But by the time Jack had wrenched Brock upright by a handful of hair, that snag of metal was truly embedded in the leather, and had torn through it with a sickening sound.

Brock wouldn’t want to ever repeat the 24 hours that followed him ripping the leather on the arm of Jack’s favourite chair. And those 24 hours of debasement and filthy punishment are what he mainly thinks of when he jerks off alone.

Rogers has another chair. _The chair_. Quite an innocuous looking chair in many ways. An upright dining chair from a yard sale. It has a single eyelet fixed to the top edge of the back. Right in the middle. Nothing really. Hardly a torture device to a man like Brock Rumlow, who has seen real torture, who has tortured, who has been trained to withstand torture in simulations so pin-sharp he still has nightmares. Still, sometimes Brock saw that chair in the corner of the lounge with a potted plant on it and his mouth dried.

When Brock and Rogers had come home to find Jack smoking in the armchair, and the other chair - the chair - in the middle of the rug, Brock had squeezed his eyes closed, expecting Rogers to be sent away, the chair to be his - _the chair_ \- surprised when Jack says, “Get your fucking clothes off, blondie.” 

Sitting in that chair, now, Rogers wears nothing but a collar. A collar so thick it holds his chin up, forcing his head into a defiant angle that’s almost like a parody of his noble, stoic persona. It’s so high and stiff he can’t look to the side without turning his whole upper body. He shuddered when it was buckled on, got hard when Brock pulled it so tight each breath caught. The collar has one D ring at the back which is attached to the eyelet on the chair with a padlock. Rogers’s wrists are ziptied together behind the chair back, and more ties bite his bare ankles, holding them to the chair legs.

Opposite him is a long mirror. So he doesn’t miss a fucking thing.

It begins with a beating, of course. The usual warm up. But the game today is new - Jack is giving the orders and Brock is carrying them out. Jack first instructs fists to the face like an interrogation starter. Hard enough that the skin over Rogers’s left cheekbone soon breaks and theres a little smear of blood there. Rogers hasn’t made a sound over a grunt yet. Maybe it’s the collar, or the mirror, but he’s trying to be tough. Playing hero. It’s fucking hot when he does that. Brock likes it. Shame the fucker can never keep it up. Shame Jack always takes it as his cue to try and smash that stoicism away, make it shatter off Rogers like glazed paper.

“Ah, nice,” Jack says as skin gives under Brock’s fist. “Now let’s take a little sandpaper to that.” 

In response, Rogers had moans a delighted, soft, ”Yes. God,” forgetting for a second that he’s playing tough and jerking his hips, hard-dick wet with need against his flat, perfect belly. And when Brock presses the piece of sandpaper to the graze on his cheek, Rogers moans out again, head rolling against the stiff collar, Brock grinds the paper hard into Rogers’s skin, hearing Jack behind him muttering, “Yeah. Fucking yeah. Fuck him up. Fuck the slut’s face up.” Rogers gasps as his skin breaks further under the sandpaper. And, at that desperate noise, Brock desperately wants to kiss him, but this wasn’t his game, and he doesn’t get what he wants. He bites his lip…

He gets… “Yeah. Yeah,” says Jack again, taking an audible drag on his smoke. “Now spit on it.”

Brock nods, feels the wet in his mouth as Rogers makes a soft moan. Dirty fucking filth loves to be spat on. Would beg for it, if asked. Would crawl across the room, moan, please, to be spat on, to be nothing, would open his filthy mouth for it. Brock takes hold of a handful of Rogers’s hair. “Yeah, good,” says Jack, “get its head right back. Brock does his best but the collar is so stiff. Rogers whimpers at the pull against this throat, but the fucking bitch still looks up at him, expectantly, eyes glassy for it.

And opens his fucking mouth like a baby bird.

Brock takes hold of Rogers’s chin, and climbs up, pressing one knee onto the chair between Roger’s thick thighs, but before he can do anything, Jack says, “Ask for it.” And Rogers manages half a breathy ‘please’, directed up at Brock, before Jack cuts him off with, “No. Not you. You, fag.” He looks at Brock. “Ask for it. Ask to do it.”

Brock looks up. “Can I spit in his mouth, sir?”

“Whose mouth?”

“It,” Brock checks himself. “It. Can I spit in its mouth, sir?” He can feel Rogers shaking underneath him.

“Yes you can, faggot,” Jack nods, “oh yes you can.” Brock looks at Jack as he finishes with a long, slow easy grin. holds his eyes, as lets a long trail of spit fall from his lips into Rogers’s desperate mouth. Rogers takes it, fucking keening and writhing around. “Yeah,” says Jack. “Yeah. nice. Now fuck its face up some more.”

Brock does. When Rogers’s cheek is a fucking mess and so’s Rogers, Brock moves to his tits with the scrunch of sandpaper, straddling his lap and scraping them raw, licking them hard between scourings to test sensitivity, before adding clamps when they’re so sensitive each touch of Brock’s tongue makes tough-guy Rogers bite down on a scream; then weights on the clamps, then more sandpaper around and around until both nipples are bleeding and, true to form, fucking pain slut Rogers is fucking losing it.

So fucking beautiful. And Rogers watches it all in the mirror.

But the mirror, though, the mirror isn’t so Rogers can see how beaten down he is, or even so he can see what a slut he’s being for the beating; the mirror is so he can see what’s going to be written on him.

Jack throws Brock a thick black marker and, first, gleefully instructs him to write the word Cunt across Rogers’s forehead. Brock sucks in a hard breath, a spike of arousal hitting him, not from the order, but from Rogers’s cock jolting, from Rogers’s endless ability to get turned on by his own degradation. _The serum amplifies everything._ With a swallow Brock leans close and writes the word in blocky caps across Rogers’s sweet smooth skin and Rogers keens, lips parted, panting hard, staring at his beaten face in the mirror. Fucked. In the collar. Sweat flattening his hair. CUNT written on his face.

And Jack takes a long pull on his smoke and says. “You like that, cunt? You like the way I’ve made you look so fucking pretty? Say thank you for it, cunt. Thank me, or maybe I’ll find something better to do than tell your pathetic daddy how to treat you so nice.”

Rogers stares at his reflection. “Yes,” he whispers and Brock is tuned in enough to smack him around the face without an order. “Yes, thank you,” Rogers splutters, correcting himself. “Thank you, sir.” And then he looks over at Jack and says, “Please, sir. More.”

Jack smirks, putting his smoke to his lips, cupping his dick through his pants with his other hand. Jack’s dressed, in jeans and white vest, stubble on his cheeks. He stretches his arms up above his head and speaks around his smoke, wobbling a little in his lips. “Really? More? What sort of ‘more’ you pathetic piece of shit? More pain or…” he drags on the smoke.

Steve blinks, Brock can see his big thighs shaking. “More.” His voice fades away for a second. “More. Like this.”

“Words on you, yeah? The dirty words for what y’are?”

Rogers takes a shaky breath. “Yes, sir.”

Jack looks at Steve as he stubs out his smoke in the ashtray. “Okay,” he says. “Jesus, ain’t I sweet? Do ‘fuck hole’, it likes ‘fuck hole’. You like it, right? Fuck hole?”

But Rogers doesn’t reply. He’s turned to stare at himself in the mirror again. He looks half fucked out already. Brock grabs his chin and turns Rogers’s head, forcing it against the collar, so he’s looking at Jack. Steve grunts. Jack smirks, “Am I right, you like ‘fuck hole’, fuck hole?”

Rogers’s blinks, “Yes,” he says softly. “Yes, uh, sir, yes. Fuck hole.”

“Good. Ask for it then. Ask this queer piece of shit here to write it on you?”

Rogers looks up at Brock. His lips shake for a minute as he struggles for the words, then he says, “Please. Please write, uh, please write fuck hole on me, daddy.”

“That’s it,” says Jack. “Come on then. ‘Fuck hole.’ On the cheek you haven’t ruined.” And he tosses Brock another pen, a finer one, still black.

Brock writes ‘Fuck Hole’ carefully on Rogers’s right cheek and adds an arrow pointing to his mouth which makes Jack laugh. “That’s nice, fag. That’s real nice.”

Rogers is staring at himself in the mirror, panting.

“Yeah,” says Brock. “And look how the dirty fucker likes it?” Brock reaches to stroke Rogers’s hard dick. Rogers makes a desperate sound, and thrusts up into Brock’s hand like that touch could save his damn life. Brock wets his lips. _Christ this fucker is hot for this terrible shit. Jesus._

But before Brock can really enjoy Rogers’s helpless need, Jack shouts. “You fuck! Fucking stop that.” And Brock pulls his hand away like Rogers’s dick just caught on fire. “Fuck,” Jack snarls. “Did I tell you to fucking jerk it off. Get your filthy queer lils off his fucking junk you sick fuck.”

“Sorry,” Brock says quickly. “Sorry, sir.”

“Are you, you fucker? Yeah. Are you sorry? You starting to think this was some kind of double-daddy carnival of fun. Go fuck yourself. Your still just my pet fag, just here so I can play with that without getting up. _Yet_ … Take your fucking pants off.”

“What?” Brock’s shirtless, but he still has his jeans on. He’s hard inside them, has been since Rogers started pretending he wasn’t crying. 

“You’re forgetting what this is, faggot. Take your fucking clothes off. You just don’t get it unless you’re naked do you, you piece of shit?” Jack shakes his head. Brock swallows, and drops his jeans and underpants. And Jack smiles and leans back. “Good. Nice. Now write ‘cum dump’ on it’s mouth. It’s alright, slut, you don’t have to say anything this time. I know how much you need this one.”

Brock did as he was told. He wrote ‘cum dump’ on Rogers’s puffy lips, ‘cum’ across the top, with the U nestling in the pretty cupid’s bow and ‘dump’ on the lush jutting bottom one. After that Brock wrote slut across the curve of Rogers’s right tit.

He’s admiring that, his neat faggy writing and Rogers’s stupid-hot body, when Jack throws him the switchblade and says, “Yeah. Good. Okay, now for some real fucking calligraphy.” The knife hits the floor, knocking into Brock’s bare feet and he feels like all he air has been suddenly smashed out of his body. He picks up the blade, shaking. He looks up at Rogers as he straightens and Rogers looks back, shocked, blinking, wet in his eyes. Dick still hard.

“Now,” says Jack, drawling long and sexy, pleased with himself, “Use that and write faggot on it. On its other tit. Get it right now. Two Gs, one T. Don’t fuck it up, whore. Pay attention.”

“Fuck,” Rogers says on a moan and drops his head as far as the collar will allow. Silently, Brock seconds that emotion, holding the switchblade in his shaking hand.

As Brock makes the first cut, Rogers’s dick jerks hard twice. Brock’s bent over close, steadying himself with his left hand on Rogers’s big shoulder. And Rogers’s mutters shakily in his ear, “Oh, fuck yes, please. Do it. Jesus. Daddy, please. Write it on me. Write what I am.”

Brock feels his own dick jerk at that. And, across the room, Jack says, “Yeah. Those pretty fucking tits so pretty now. Gonna reopen that every day, fag, gonna make it scar for you. Make sure you don’t forget what you are.” Steve grunts. Steve deosn’t really scar, but maybe he's gone enough to get off on the threat of it. 

When Brock's done, the word spilling, blood trailing down Roger’s chest past his fucked up nipple, Rogers still has his head down, breathing hard. It isn’t just pain. He’s fucking lost himself to it.

“Get it off the chair, now,” says Jack. “I want it on it’s knees.”

Brock unlocks the padlock at Rogers’s neck. then crouches to cut the zipties at Rogers’s ankles. When Rogers is no longer attached to the chair, Brock helps him off it, taking most of his weight as he bears him to the floor with his wrist still fixed behind him. 

“Yeah,” says Jack, stubbing out his smoke. “Now, thing is, that’s some fine work there. Faggot. Nice. So pretty, but I never cleaned that blade and I’d hate it to get infected. But we don’t have any disinfectant, do we?”

“Right,” says Brock, knowing this isn’t a real question.

“And that being the case, looks like the only way to clean that properly you’re going to have to piss on it, fuckpig. Piss over it, come on.”

On the floor, Rogers has his head bowed. He moans and mutters, “Fuck, fuck,” again shoulders quivering.

“Right,” Brock takes hold of his dick.

“Although,” Jack’s voice makes Brock pause. “I suppose I could piss on it. There’s a thing. Another plan. What do you think?”

“I don’t…” Brock says. “I suppose, if you want to-”

“Shut up, fucker,” Jack cuts him off. “I wasn’t asking you. I was asking faggot-tits on the floor.”

Rogers lifts his head. He looks at himself in the mirror again, then at Jack. It takes him a minute. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, daddy, please piss on me. Please write faggot on me, daddy and piss on me.”

“Shut up, you dumb fuck, you’re not to beg for this. You have to choose who’s gonna piss on you. Your daddy, or your daddy’s daddy? Who do you want to piss all over you, filth?”

Rogers swallows, but it doesn’t take him a moment to decide. “Daddy,” he says quietly, looking from Jack to Brock with his eyes soft and needy. “I want daddy to piss on me.”

“That’s what I thought, you greedy fuck,” says Jack, getting to his feet. “You want both, don’t you, cocksucker?” And he’s unzipping as he crosses to them - unzipping and smiling like a fucking animal.

Brock follows Jack’s lead. Jack is there first with his dick out and has his jet of piss hitting Rogers’s chest, Rogers shakes and moans louder than he has yet when it touches him - seems to visibly weaken. Brock uses his own dick spray piss where he wrote faggot on Roger’s chest, worrying at the torn flesh and making blood spray in the air, pale pink. 

“Make sure you get it in its eyes, you useless fucker,” Jack says, idly directing the stream of piss from his own dick over Rogers’s gasping face. At this, Brock sees a cast flicker over Rogers’s eyes as they flutter shut. Heh, bastard’s finally checking out - floating off into his own little peaceful world. But that’s against the rules. And, of course, Jack’s spotted it.

“No you fucking don’t, cunt.” Jack grabs Rogers hard by the hair. As he reaches out his hand passes through the arc of piss from Brock’s dick; Brock shivers when, for a split second, he’s actually pissing on Jack’s big wrist. Jack shakes Rogers fingers tight at his scalp, still pissing over his face. Hard, vicious jolts as he says, “No you fucking don’t. You will open your fucking fag eyes when your daddy is pissing in them you disgusting fucking queer fag fuck. Open. Now. Or you’ll be drinking nothing but my sweet piss for a week.”

Shuddering, whimpering hopelessly, Rogers opens his red eyes, squinting and blinking as Jack pisses right in them for a second, cooing, “That’s it, that’s it, cunt, take it in the eyes” and then - Brock can hardly believe what he’s seeing - as those big, clamped tits quiver and then Rogers’s whole body is shaking and shaking and the fucker is… _the fucker’s fucking coming_ , dick jerking, jolting all over himself as Jack sighs and directs his stream of piss down Rogers’s face and right into his open, keening mouth..

“Jesus fuck,” says Jack, stopping pissing as Rogers’s shoulders stop heaving. Brock takes his cue and does the same. “Christ’s sake. You are the most pathetic piece of fucking shit.” He shakes his head, like, for once, he’s actually unable to find the words, then takes a breath and says, “unbe-fucking-lievable.”

He lets go of Rogers’s sodden hair and, for all his muscle control, Rogers just crumples like his foundations are blown - cunt-forehead to the piss-soaked rug - slumping so hard the floor shakes a bit. That rug’s ruined. Brock liked that rug. He’s a faggy fucking fucker when it comes to interiors. He thinks for a second how hard Jack would tease him if he knew he’d just thought about the state of the rug. It’s a nice rug. 

But what’s on the rug is too distracting. Brock watches Rogers’s heaving body for a second, he’s face down and ass up with his wrists bound, and he's lost and almost offering it up on a plate. Such a pretty piece of shit. Stinks though. Even to Brock, a man who has been in locker rooms and bathhouses and backrooms and wetrooms and slaughterhouses and the sites of mass graves, Rogers, covered in sweat and jizz and blood and ink and two flavours of piss stinks worse than almost anything. Still, he looks fucking good. Brock licks his lips, then nudges Jack, “You wanna fuck it first?” he says, almost gleeful. “Want me to open it up for you?” And in that moment, Brock wants little so much as to bury his face in Rogers’s ass, until Rogers is screaming.

But reaches for Brock’s cheek, turns his face and leans in and kisses him, just a little, just to make him want it, then pulls back and slaps Brock’s cheek. “No, fucker,” he says. “Now you get in that chair. Time for a role reversal.”

Rogers lifts his head from the floor. His face is white. “W-what?” he says.


	2. Switch Brock Rumlow

The room is real quiet for a moment. And Jack just stands there, staring. 

Eventually, Brock sits himself in the chair. Jack takes a step forward and bends over Rogers, picking up the blade from the floor and deftly snicking it through the zip tie holding Rogers’s wrists. Rogers makes a soft sound as he brings his arms around in front of his body and uses them to steady himself on the floor. Jack removes Rogers’s collar.

Jack puts the collar on Brock - pulling it too tight so it catches each breath, jerking it closed so Brock feels the hard top edge dig into him, forcing his chin up, snapping the padlock to hold it to the back of the chair, so his head can hardly move at all. He secures Brock’s wrists with another zip tie. None of this treatment is new or strange or even unwelcome. The thing that makes Brock’s heart turn over, is when Jack returns to his own armchair, and, as he goes, kicks Rogers’s thigh, muttering, “Get the fuck up, piss hole.”

 _Rogers is staying for this_. Brock swallows as well as the high, uncomfortable collar lets him. 

As Rogers gets shakily to his feet, still with ‘cunt’ and ‘fuck hole’ and ‘cum dump’ written on his face, ‘slut’ written on his chest, the place where Brock had written ‘faggot’ already scabbing over black, blood smeared down his chest, the sandpaper wounds already almost gone, Brock sees a look in Rogers’s eyes, a slight, wary narrowing that’s noticeable, even through his fucked out, expression. 

Rogers, Brock realises, is jealous. As fucked up as they might be, Rogers has very clear, very simple desires. He likes to be put in his place. Hard. He likes to be hurt for the pleasure of others. He likes to be demeaned. He likes to beg. And he likes it to be very, very clear that he is the lowest, most worthless, most inconsequential person in the room. A sub-human thing and a thing that exists only to please other people. That’s what the cunt likes.

Rogers does not like Brock being in the chair. Rogers does not like the fact Brock is Jack’s favourite, was here long before he was and will be here long after Rogers is gone. It shouldn’t be. Brock knows he’s a pretty little fag, but he isn’t a beautiful adonis like Rogers. They don’t go out much, but when they do, it’s obvious who everyone wants. 

So obvious that more than once Brock has leaned over and whispered in Rogers’s ear, “It’d be your own fault if this whole bar raped you, sugar, looking the way you do, making them fucking want it.” And Rogers’s breath would catch - his dark eyelashes would flutter as his eyes closed, because he liked that kind of talk. He’d moan so pretty and Brock would put a hand on his dick, to shame him about being hard. “I’d let them too. I’d invite them to do it. This whole bar, fucking you in the gutter outside. Maybe they’d pay me a quarter a turn. Throw coins into the drain so you could fetch them with your sweet, dirty mouth. You know that shirt’s too small for you, don’t you? Course you do, you slut. You couldn’t even tell them no, dressed like that. You want them to do it.” 

Rogers is a beauty, and Rogers can take anything, any pain, anything, but Jack still likes Brock the best. Still takes Brock to his bed most nights, and sees Rogers as an ornament, a toy.

Jack’s back in his armchair and he’s lit another smoke and he’s gazing at Brock, tied to the chair, almost kinda lazily. But there’s desire there, anticipation. The zip tie is hard and uncomfortable at Brock’s wrists, he pulls against it for a second, just to feel the way he can’t break it, the way he can’t defend himself, even a bit, against anything that’s going to happen now. He gazes at Jack. Brock’s dick is hard.

Jack smiles and says, “Hit him in the face.” He says it to Rogers. And the way Rogers looks at Jack, it’s almost like he isn’t sure, quite, that Jack is even talking to him. Jack bristles visibly as he clarifies, “Fag hole, I said, hit that fucking fag daddy of yours in the face.”

Brock tenses. His nipples and his dick are hard about this, but his brain knows he can’t take a fist square in the face from Rogers without blacking out. It happened once accidentals on a training op. Brock had gone down like a house of cards. 

It hadn’t been Rogers’s fault, but that night Jack had punished Rogers by making him kneel by the armchair with Jack’s ashtray held in his mouth, the heavy glass one. After a few hours, the ashtray was covered in Rogers’s saliva and slipping precariously in his mouth, as he fought to hold it tight with his teeth. When he eventually dropped it on the floor, Jack made him lick up the mess of ash and cigarette butts he’d dropped, and eat all of it. 

After that Rogers’s wet, open, shaking mouth became Jack’s ashtray for the rest of the evening. Brock isn’t sure he’s ever seen Rogers stay that hard for that long without coming over himself.

Now, Rogers squares onto Jack. Brock sees his throat moving. He knows that look, but he doesn’t see it often. “I’m sorry, sir,” Rogers says. “I can’t do that, sir.”

Jack leans back, like this doesn’t phase him at all. “Oh, I think you can, bitch. You’re good at doing what you’re told. Especially when you’re being told to do something you don’t want to do it.” He wets his lips. “Let me demonstrate.” Jacks eyes flick over to Brock. “You. Fag. Tell him to fucking do it.”

Brock sucks in a quick sharp breath, all shock. His lips tremble for a second before he manages any response. He looks at Rogers, “Hit me in the face, sugar,” he says. And then, when Rogers pauses for a second, he adds, “Just fucking do it.”

Rogers punches Brock right in the face.

It’s not full force. Which might even have killed him. The chair doesn’t go over, just rocks for a second on it’s back legs. Rogers has so much control. Brock doesn’t pass out, but his breath goes and he sees stars. Before he’s really recovered Jack says, “Yeah. Nice. Treat yourself, faggot, ask for another. Ask nice this time. Real nice.”

“I’m not doing it again,” Rogers says -

\- Jack just ignores him. “Beg for it, you piece of shit,” he says to Brock. ”He doesn’t want to do it. So beg.”

Brock looks at Rogers and Rogers looks pale and angry. Brock swallows. “Please,” he says, a shake in his voice he can’t hide. He wants this. He wants… “Please hit me again.” He blinks up at Rogers.

Rogers does it. It’s harder. There’s a fucked up anger behind this one. Some of that careful, careful control is gone. Brock’s teeth ring in his face and it throbs so hard he feels nauseous. But he likes it. His nipples are taut pinches. He wants Rogers to keeping hitting him, to beat him unconscious. Thrills to the idea, almost bucking in the chair. He looks up with wet, glassy eyes, Rogers’s jaw is clenched tight. He’s naked and fucking disgusting and Brock can see and smell the piss dried all over Rogers’s skin. Rogers’s chest is heaving, his mouth a tight angry line, and it’s so hot, makes Brock’s dick ache to be touched. He likes seeing Rogers angry, angry enough that he wants to hit him and hurt him. 

Jack notices. He chuckles before he says, “You like that, faggot?” Brock turns his head. “You like your dumb-fuck pet like this don’t you? He could kill you, you know. Any time he wants. I always thought it was cute that he didn’t.”

“So could you,” says Brock, as he speaks he notices something running down his face. He glances in the mirror. There’s a bruise on his cheekbone but the skin isn’t broken there. It’s just sweat. And Jack’s noticed that too.

“Look at you sweating there, cunt. You’re so hot for this. Say it. Say how hot you are for this.” Jack stubs out his smoke.

Brock swallows, feels the bondage holding him, the collar at his throat. He licks his dry lips and says, “I’m so hot for this. Oh god. Please, daddy, please more.” And looks from Jack to Rogers and back again.

Jack makes a satisfied noise, a click of his tongue. “Nice. Bet I’m not the only one in this room wondering who you’re talking to, fuck hole.”

Brock held Jack’s gaze, but he knew Rogers was staring at him. “I was talking to you. Sir.”

“Really,” says Jack. “I thought you might be getting confused. Actually, let me put you out of your misery, you dumb fuck.” Jack stands up and, as he walks over to Brock and Rogers, he unbuckles his belt. When he’s standing square in front of Brock he pulls it from the loops of his pants. That sound, that particular noise, turns Brock on so much he can’t speak. He stares up at Jack’s face, shaking in his collar.

Jack lifts the belt to Brock’s lips and Brock doesn’t need to be told. He kisses it, gently - soft - and then says, “Thank you, sir.” He’s thanking Jack for whatever he’s going to with that belt. It doesn’t matter what it is. 

Jack pulls the belt out between two tight fists, holding it in front of Brock’s face. “Open,” Jack says bringing it to Brock’s lips. Brock opens his mouth obediently and Jack presses the leather inside like a bit. He fastens it in place, pulling the buckle tight. The belt is forced deep into Brock’s mouth, forcing his tongue down. Brock’s mouth is full of the taste of the leather, as his saliva mixes with it. It’s hard to swallow now, and in a moment, he starts to drool around the belt. Brock’s dick pulses. It turns him on to have this thing, tight in his mouth. He tries to move his tongue around it and he can’t.

Jack runs a thumb along Brock’s slippery bottom lip then ducks in closer and kisses him. Brock can’t kiss back with the belt in his mouth, can’t really move his lips at all. He moans as he takes it, Jack’s tongue slipping into his mouth around the leather, Jack’s tongue teasing at his stretched lips. He moans again. When Jack’s done tormenting him he pulls away and spits onto the belt. “Nice. You look good with that in your filthy mouth, faggot. Although, truly, you look good with anything in your mouth, don’t you?”

Brock drops his head as far as the collar will allow, and he watches the mix of spit dripping out of his mouth onto his hard dick. He shudders and moans with shame.

“Fuck’s sake,” Jack snaps and gives Brock a sudden hard slap around the face. Brock gasps and splutters into the belt. “I asked you a fucking question, you useless fucking queer piece of fucking shit. I said you look good with anything in your mouth, don’t you?”

Brock looks up. The slap has made his eyes water and Jack’s face is a blur. He tries to say, “Yes, sir,” around the gag, but all that he can manage is a humiliating choked splutter that sends more drool down his chest.

“Christ,” says Jack, “how fucking disgusting. He turns to Rogers, who is standing just a pace further away, stiff and angry. “You like this cunt like this?”

Rogers’s lips shake a moment and then he says. “Can’t say that I do, sir.”

“I see. You want to take his place?”

Rogers nods. “Yes sir.”

Jack let’s his weight fall back onto his back foot, hooks a thumb into the waistband of his jeans. “Okay,” he says. “You want that. Beg me.”

Brock gasps into the belt. Rogers’s looks at Jack for a moment, then says, “Please, sir, please put me in the chair instead. Hurt me instead. Gag me with your belt instead.”

Brock makes an angry noise into the belt stopping his mouth and Jack reaches out, grabs his balls and twists them. “Fucking shut the fuck up or these fucking come off.” Brock is rigid with the sickening pain of it, but Jack’s attention is back on Rogers. “Keep going, fuck hole.”

Rogers’s dick is hard again, his big body shifts. Brock knows what Rogers is doing. Rogers legs slip a little wider, his hands are behind him, chest out. It’s a display. Rogers knows how hot he can look. “Please, sir,” Rogers says prettily. “Please hurt me. Please, more. You only cut me a tiny bit. I need more. You could cut words into my back or my thighs. Or my dick” Rogers is panting now, his hips are moving. “Please sir, hurt me. I want more pain, sir. Tie me down and put your cigarettes out on me. On my dick. Please, sir, please. More.” Rogers is shaking. “Hurt me.”

“Huh, fucking pain whore,” says Jack. “Ain’t you greedy?”

Rogers’s chest heaves. “Yes sir, I’m so greedy sir. You should punish me.”

“Fine. Get him out of that chair. Put him on his knees on the floor.”

Rogers rushes to do as he’s told. He snaps the zip tie with his hands and is about to do the same with the padlock, when Jack stops him and tosses the key. Rogers shoves Brock onto his knees on the floor at Jack’s feet.

Jack looks at him. “Get my fucking belt out of your fucking mouth you piece of shit.” 

Brock reaches up and unbuckles the belt. He lets it fall from his mouth and splutters out, “Thank you, sir.”

Jack doesn’t acknowledge this at all and instead addresses Rogers. “Fuck his face.”

Rogers takes a sharp little breath. “What?”

“You fucking heard me. You wanted some pain. How’s this. Fuck his face.” Rogers doesn’t move, but he doesn’t say no again. Jack kicks Brock in the thigh. “Beg for it faggot,” he says with a snarl. “Ask for it. Call him daddy. I know that’s what you really want. Wanted that the minute they thawed this cunt out. All that fucking power. All that muscle. Jerking off over Captain America since you were a little boy. So come on. Tell Captain Daddy to fuck your face.”

Brock doesn’t pause. He looks up at Rogers. “Please, daddy,” he says, the words feeling awful, feeling wrong. “Please fuck my face.”

Rogers looks at Brock, then at Jack. 

“Please,” says Brock again. “Please. I need it, daddy. Please force your dick down my throat.” Brock’s own cock jerks as he says this.

Rogers sucks in an angry breath. “Fine,” he says, and takes Brock by the hair.

Rogers might not want to do this at all, but he does it rough. He’s so strong. His hands in Brock’s hair are like a fucking vice. Jack has fucked Brock’s face hundreds of times, but it never felt like this. He couldn’t get Rogers’s dick out of his mouth if he tried. There’s nothing he can do as Rogers forces himself right down Brock’s throat and he fights not to gag. Behind Rogers he can hear the wet slap of Jack touching his own dick. And the occasional mutter of, “Yeah nice,” when Brock whimpers hard, fighting to breathe.

Roger’s balls bang into Brock’s chin, Brock’s own drool is everywhere, his chest is slick with it. His jaw is screaming, aching and painful. Half the time he can’t even get a breath. He tries to shift position and can’t. So he sucks harder and Rogers moans. Brock isn’t sure if Rogers is really enjoying this, although his dick is hard and leaking wet which he spreads over Brock’s lips and cheeks on the merciful occasions when he pulls right out. Brock’s dick twitches every time Rogers moans or grips his hair tighter. Brock can hardly stand how much he loves being on his knees, servicing Rogers’s magnificent dick, trapped by Rogers’s magnificent strength.

When Rogers comes it’s suddenly and with a cry that is almost like despair, yanking his dick out of Brock’s mouth and getting his come on Brock’s tongue and face. When his dick stops jolting, Jack tugs Rogers’s out of the way by a shoulder and takes his place in front of Brock, kneeling, exhausted on the floor. Jack lifts Brock’s chin. Brock looks up and Jack grins down, looking as pleased with himself as he’s ever looked, then reaches out a slaps Brock’s come-covered face. Brock gasps. Jack turns to Rogers. “This one needs to be fucked now. Put him on his hands and knees.” Brock moans.

With only a slight wobble, Rogers pulls Brock down onto all fours, while Jack walks around behind him. Rogers keeps hold of Brock’s shoulders. There’s no way Brock can move away or fight back. It turns him on. His dick is screaming and he’s desperate to come now. He feels Jack’s cock, nudging at his hole, and then Jack reaches over him and scoops a handful of Roger’s come from Brock’s face. Brock shudders and he hears the slick sound of Jack using that filth to grease his dick. 

That’s the only concession. Jack presses the tip of his dick to Brock’s hole again and growls. “Ask for it, cunt.”

Brock swallows. “Please, daddy.”

Jack slaps his flank. “Please what you piece of shit.”

Brock rolls his hips. Desperate for it. “Please fuck me, daddy. Fucking fuck me. Fuck me hard, while Rogers holds me. Please, daddy, please. Make me come on your dick. Daddy, I need to come. Please let me come.” 

Jack slaps Brock again happily and shifts forward. Brock bucks hard in Rogers’s arms as Jack presses into him. He can’t move. Jack’s hands are holding his hips tight enough to bruise. “You got off on your pet fucking your face, didn’t you?” Jack snarls as he settles into a punishing rhythm.

Brock is looking right into Rogers’s eyes. They’re glassy and swimmy, like he’s both seething with anger and totally into this. “Yes, daddy,” Brock whispers. He’s blinking back tears of shame now.

Jack doesn’t stop. He keeps talking as he fucks Brock harder and harder, gasping out words.“You get off on that, don’t you, fucking whore, fucking fag, you’re such a slut for that. For him. Rogers. For him treating you like that? It’s what you really want isn’t it? You think you’re better than him, you’re not, you’re both the same. Both just fucking holes.”

“Yes. Yes, daddy, yes,” Brock sobs. “I’m just a hole. Please fuck me harder” He’s is so close now. So close to coming he’ll say anything. Blind with lust. He’s just a single stroke of Jack’s cock away from shooting all over his own belly, when Jack reaches for him. Reaches out and pinches the base of Brock’s dick hard. Brock yells in protest, “Oh god, no. No! Please, daddy. Please, no. Let me come!” But Jack holds Brock’s dick, cruel and fast as he rides out his own orgasm, hammering into Brock’s ass, gripping viciously tight so Brock can’t come even as he gasps and begs.

Jack takes his hand carefully from Brock’s cock as he pulls out. Brock whimpers, “Please,” and Jack chuckles back, “Not tonight, faggot. Not for you.”

It’s only Roger’s holding him up now. Brock’s arms are water. He feels the burning fucking ache in his denied cock. It’s a familiar sensation. And it’s agony. 

Jack stands up and spits on Brock’s back. “Now both of you fuck off. I’m gonna read a book.”

Rogers didn’t speak to either of them for the next four days.


End file.
